We are separated by a generation, a thousand miles, and I haven’t worn a hoodie since I was an undergrad, but I am still Trayvon Martin…
when I am (still) followed around stores
when I cross the street at night before some random she has a chance to just so I won’t have to suffer the indignity of watching her jaywalking away from the dangerous me
when I hear doors lock as I pass near a car
when I am unfailingly polite to rude police officers because the consequences of not doing so are disproportionate
when I am routinely passed by empty cabs on the street
when I am reminded that my tailored suits and fancy education don’t really make me immune to the everyday slights
when I encounter (too goddamn frequently) the realization that the color of my skin is probable cause for suspicion
and I am Trayvon’s father when I delivered the “Talk” to my 20year old nephew who I pray will never have to give that talk when he is my age
What blows my mind is that the man is not in jail. He killed someone. He belongs in prison.
I believe it’s true, you are. I believe all these things, and while they make me angry and sad, they don’t surprise me anymore.
Thank you for sharing this.